Colorless
by AkaiArsony
Summary: The canvas remains blank, lest the artist begins weaving images with each stroke of his brush. What was colorless and pure is open to all possibilities - both tragic and comic. AU. Meant only to last for a few chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing. Except the story.

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The bittersweet aroma of black coffee permeated the air of his broken down cafe.

He sat by the remaining table in his shop, sipping his brew quietly while his eyes would wander every now and then. Shattered glass, dismantled bricks, and smashed pieces of wood littered the floor of his establishment. A gaping hole now served as an entrance into _Murakami_ instead of the small, oaken door that had a small chime above it to indicate the presence of a customer.

He took relief in the fact that the wooden counter behind him, complete with the row of stools, the shelves lined with various brewing ingredients and bottles of exotic drinks, and the kitchen had all been spared from the earlier chaos that had ensued within the confines of his shop and abode. He'd spent a fortune collecting those too, and he was very confident that the total of everything behind him cost more than the rest of what he'd spent for the completion of his little project. It would be difficult to revive his small business if those had all gone, whisked away on a whim.

A chilly draft passed into the shop, cold fingertips that shyly touched his pale cheeks. Night was almost upon him, yet he was compelled to stay on his seat, finish his drink, pour himself another cup, and continue waiting for a certain guest.

A guest he was sure to provide him some answers concerning all the queries that had come to mind.

Really, he'd been looking for peace and quiet all this time—only for the calm for the past two years of his life be shattered because of a single day's turn of events. Just as his life had been turned upside-down from the ordeal brought upon him by one girl, yet another female had become a herald of the breaking of the silent world he'd struggle to build from the remainder of his bloody and grueling past.

Sighing, he took another sip of the bitter beverage.

His thumb found itself on one of the joints of his index finger, pushing down hard until he could hear the all too familiar _crack_. Old habits die hard, they used to say, and the ones he had since way back then only manifested nowadays whenever he was under stress, with the worst of them showing under more extreme conditions.

Like when that black-winged exhibitionist and her friends started hurling spears of energy at him.

A company of four, he'd remembered—three females, and older fellow. They'd all order the same thing, just the most usual from his small menu. He never forgot the more interesting ones of his customers. _Ev_ _er_. Especially when all of them suddenly sprouted feathery wings shaded charcoal behind their backs, with lines of energy crackling in the palms of their hands and extending into weapons that could both be wielded and thrown. He'd just arrived by their table to serve their orders when it all happened, and in his opinion, it was all a waste of good coffee.

Yoshimura-san would have been furious, he thought.

He narrowed his eyes when they attacked, not bothering to ask his assailants why they were after him. He wasn't really sure if they would have even bothered to answer him properly, they were too busy trying to disembowel him. Since that line of action then was pointless, he resolved to dodging, observing their movements and pattern of attacks, and gauging their overall combat proficiency.

After five minutes of moving around and getting the inside furniture get destroyed, he decided he would not jeopardize any more of himself and his establishment, choosing to finally bring out his kagune.

Four tendrils of scarlet shot out from below the small of his back, weaving through the air nimbly and grabbing his attackers. He forcibly flung them out of the cafe, destroying the wall lining entrance in the process. Wasting no time, he whizzed through the settling dust, spearing two of his then sharpened tendrils into the chest of the still dizzied older man.

He recalled the one of the others yelling the man's name—Dohnaseek, he silently passed on his lips. The resilience he found in the man's eyes were commendable, in the least, but it was something he found no true value in. After all, what use was it when one was about to cease breathing?

His tendrils reshaped into a wedge-like shape, slicing outward from the center to each sides until the area of the chest up went flying, leaving a crumpling form of the abdomen down to the legs spouting out blood like a broken water pipe with a leak.

Searing pain jolted him, with three spears perforating his left shoulder. He jumped back, turning his focus to the smallest of the girls, her palm still hissing with heat. His tendrils shot out to swat away the other two flanking his sides in midair, distracting them long for him to rush in, pull her down to the ground with his kagune, and plant his fist deep into the younger girl's gut. The blood she'd coughed up dirtied his already messed up uniform, and his own painted it red further when she'd plant another spear into his ribs, puncturing one of his lungs. A choked gasp escaped him, before he bit back and pushed his fist deeper into the girl, eliciting a sharp-pitched shriek as he grabbed and pulled out her entrails.

Perhaps she had ought to be congratulated, having made all that effort to try and kill him while she herself was in the process of being skewered.

He eyed the remaining two as he took a bite out of his second victim's stomach, feeling his Ghoul regeneration quicken and the pumping of survival biochemicals activate. Disgust was present in their eyes, before turning into rage at the fact that another of their comrade had been slain. The one clad in nothing but straps of leather tightly biting into her curvaceous shape was about to rush him before here remaining ally reluctantly instructed her to fall back and regroup. The two began to fly off, after the leather-clad one hurled abuse at him. The eyebrow above his kakugan raised, having never encountered such a foul-mouthed lady before. There was Touka-chan, and there was this, he supposed.

He attempted to give chase to the two, jumping in midair and swiping at them with his sharpened tendrils before they'd intercept with their spears, swinging them like swords and parrying his attack. They shot the beams at him, while he then maneuvered his body to twirl and dodge; one had managed still to graze his neck, the bleeding staining the collar of his shirt and his undershirt.

Both were already flying away a distance when he'd landed, too far for his liking to give chase. For all he knew, he could've been lured into a corner filled more of their allies. As much as he would want answers to the predicament he found himself, he fell on one knee and breathed heavily, assessing that his regeneration was not working quick enough to repair the damage he'd suffered. From the periphery of his vision, however, he was sure he had found a temporary solution to that.

The recollection of that afternoon was quite vivid to him—especially the different taste of the corpses he'd taken in. He'd gotten tingles all over his body as he was digesting his earlier meal, unsure of whether or not it was actually something healthy for him to have eaten, even if his injuries did heal a little too fast for his liking. It was obvious that those things were not humans—and if they weren't, then just what were they?

And so, he had decided then, after a brief repose, to make use of a contact.

The brown parchment of paper was lying on his now-shabby table. Contact details were printed on it, and the paper itself had been in his care after a sweet, young lady left it with him a while back. She had been quite the fascinating one to exchange words with, visiting his shop almost daily. She'd come by during the after-school hours, entering _Murakami_ alone and ordering the same cup of caffe latte and a plate of pasta carbonara. She'd told him that she did not tire of the taste, after he'd ask her once, and even went as far to compliment him and hold him in quite a high regard. The girl was of noble upbringing, as she'd relay to him in a conversation, and knowing that he'd gone and prepared meals rivaling that of a five star chef gave him quite the swell in pride and confidence.

Of course, he knew people had there own eccentricities—and when she'd made hers known, he had to pace his thoughts and words. He did not wish to frighten her in her search for the supernatural, when there was a prime example serving her food for quite some time already.

It had been an afternoon on a weekend, when she'd ask about his hobbies, apart from his tasks in the shop. He had amorously shared his being a bibliophile, both a passion and a vice that he would not dare change about himself. It was something the girl had found quite appreciative in him, as she had related knowing so few who would still be interested in literature. Apart from that, they'd also discover a similar affinity for the game of chess, where he had to admit he'd never faced anyone as formidable as the girl.

Then came the question poised to her, where he'd discover that she had quite the liking for supernatural entities. The shine in her eye gave him an idea just how much she'd pay to get ahold of such a being, and it gave him a chill down his back for a some reason. Before the girl had left, she had handed him a brochure, asking him to call her in the case of one popping out in his vicinity.

Naturally, he'd oblige her request, even if the supernatural in the vicinity was none other than himself.

However, their meetings had long been scant after that. Every time that she did come, he'd notice a growing dread and melancholy around her, and the girl who was jolly and a tad passionate was far gone. Advice would be what she would order together with nothing else but a cup of the bitter drink—advice on what one should do with one's choices, and being torn between your own happiness and the familial responsibilities one should carry.

He was disappointed when he had found it difficult to answer. Truly, he wanted to help, just like how Yoshimura-san had done so for him, yet words could not leave his tongue nor could they come to mind. The girl would go and tell him it was fine if he did have words of wisdom to spare, but it irked him to see her growing sadness deepen from a puddle into a lake.

And soon after, she no longer came. He never even asked for her name, nor did he introduce himself. Typical me, he'd thought, mentally slapping himself.

Remembering the parchment then, he'd thought he'd call the girl and ask her about the winged creatures that had laid waste to his shop (it was technically still his fault for the entrance—but, oh well) and attempted to murder him. She was quite the intelligent girl, and maybe she could shed some light on this without him directly involving her within the events. Bad enough that he was a target for unfathomable reasons, there was no way he was involving a civilian into these matters.

After all, it was a favor only from one supernatural to another.

Surprise, however, captured him as what occurred next was entirely out of his expectations—the a sigil or circle full of runic letters appeared with a red glow behind the paper, with a similar marking then appearing on his telephone. The voice on the other side answering him was clearly male, instructing him that the "lady" was out for the moment, and that a different representative would be sent to him for further discussions in the matter of an hour or so. And then there was that familiar beeping sound, signalling him that the call was over long before he could even have uttered a syllable.

By then, he'd return to his seat, mystified that the contact details had since then disappeared from the paper, and that all that remained was the now black circle on the back. He sighed, exhausted that so much was happening in so small an amount of time, that he'd never expected something of such magnitude to already happen as he enjoyed his more silent years of living covertly.

The chime of the clock on the nearby wall alerted him to six o'clock; his hour of waiting already up. As if on cue, a red glow flickered out of the corner of his sight, vanishing as quickly as it came. Where his front there was supposed to be stood two figures, one in a business suit and the other in a uniform he recognized to be from Kuoh Academy, the nearby school in the area. He stood from his seat eyeing the pair as they went into his shop warily.

Red hair met his sight, similar to that of the young girl who had frequented his shop.

It was as if the man was a carbon copy of her, made taller and transformed into a male version. Then again, there might be a simple reason behind it, and he recalled that explanations came sooner than one could expect them. He could've sworn a ghost of a frown passed the man's expression, before giving him a small smile of sorts. His escort was a handsome, blonde young man, who was, for some inexplicable reason, glaring daggers at him.

As the pair neared, the tingling sensation had returned, albeit quite much more irritable this time around. It was as if his body was asking him, begging even, for him to move and alleviate it. Yes, the sensation had become familiar enough that he could tag what it was—

It was the need to _kill_. He was being drawn to _kill_ the pair before him.

He felt his right hand tremble, cold sweat forming within the closed fist that shook slightly. He took deep breaths, composing himself as the two faced him.

"Kiba-kun, please stand guard."

"Yes, Lucifer-sama."

The man raised a hand as he neared, holding a piece of paper similar to the one on the table. A red glow appeared on its surface, like small embers burning an insignia of a circle with runes into the parchment. The light settled, leaving behind the same marking he'd seen, almost as if what had remained was printed by mere ink.

"How are you related to the young girl I got the same paper from?" The man's eyes widened for a moment, before giving a light chuckle, almost as if it wasn't the exact question he was expecting.

"I thought you'd be asking me if I was human first, but that was quite unexpected." The man smiled when he tilted his head in confusion, then asked the redhead to take a seat across him from the table. He had already prepared another cup in front of the man, and poured him the same drink that he'd been consuming since earlier.

"The girl you refer to is my dear younger sister. And to answer another obvious question, no I am not human—so are my sister and the young man over there."

At least it had answered why he'd always gotten a weird feeling around that girl. There was something almost unnatural with her that he'd always dismissed it, yet here it was—something he'd chosen to ignore had come biting him back.

The man gave the room another look, before then imposing his own curiosity. "I'd like to know what's happened here."

He closed his eyes as he took a slow sip of coffee. "Black-winged people attacked. There were four of them. I assumed your sister may help me track what they were, as she's told me she's a fan of the supernatural, and decided to give a call. Apparently, she forgot to tell me she, too, was part of the world she was so fascinated with."

The man lifted his own cup, staring into the liquid in deep thought. "Black wings... Well, Fallen Angels to be exact. Have you ever heard of them, for example, in myths and such?"

"Beings once of purity and holy power, they succumbed to earthly temptations and carnal pleasures that in turn dyed their white and golden wings black with the darkness of sin; and so, because of sin, they were cast out of Heaven, stripped of their ranks and shamed, with the love of their Father now lost forever from their grasp." Literature was a source of knowledge, and knowledge was power. Fiction had always proved to be entertainment and a source of inspiration, however that didn't mean he possessed no inclination to non-artistic writings. He also drilled knowledge various mythos and practical information into his head, swimming in the pools of wisdom that he always enjoyed wallowing in.

"Poetic, and quite neatly summarized." The redhead finally took a sip of the coffee, eyes widening with mild surprise. "A fine brew. Surely, they did not leave you and your establishment battered over a bad batch of coffee?"

"I can only wonder."

"You've mentioned four of them. You must've held your ground quite well to still be this fine, brewing with beans and relaxing with a warm drink."

"Two of them flew away. They might come back here, too—I still have no inkling as to why they would attack me of all people."

The man's brows knitted for a bit, but the small smile never left his face. "And the other two?"

There it was. The line of conversation had seemingly appeared quite casual, and he was sure the redhead was aiming to have reached this point—where he himself would be inches to exposing his identity, one he had wished not to expose to keep his silence. But, as things were in the present, could he really achieve that same peace once more? With the increasing supernatural forces all around him and making themselves all the more apparent, he was finding that notion impossible to reach. As reluctant as he was to come clean with who he was, perhaps it might be for the better for him to find, if ever, a temporary ally in this man.

At least, so that he could discover what his assailants were after. And have them pay back what they for the cafe.

"... I ate them."

Disbelief was apparent in the man's face. "I beg your pardon?"

"I ate them. Consumed. Devoured. Ingested. All things synonymous, and in between—you get the point."

"I... see. And just what are you, pray tell?" The curious look he was being given was quite disconcerting, in all his honesty.

He gave a long sigh, manifested his kakugan and stared at the man dead in the eyes. A surge of strength flowed through the entirety of his body, filling him with a rush that put his senses on high. Red tendrils shot out from behind him, glowing scarlet with their scaly and fluid looks. The tingling sensation had gone, replaced by a murderous instinct that he was having quite some trouble holding back.

He could feel cold steel touch his throat ever so slightly, tracing its killing intent back to the blond boy who was now beside the red-haired man, eyes locked onto him with an emotion that spilled venom. A trickle of sweat flowed slowly down his neck and to his chest, soaked by the shirt he wore.

"I am a Ghoul. Anything apart from the coffee on this table or the flesh on another is completely abhorrent to my kind. I am a natural predator of humans."

His eyes did not leave the red-haired man's, his face completely relaxed and impassive. His attention would not even care about the blade so close. This was the moment to see whether or not trust would be possible with the pair, if it would even be remotely possible to seek out their assistance.

"... Stand down, Kiba-kun. He does not appear interested in any sort of attack, whatsoever." His face was as calm, but the tone he spoke with carried steel.

The boy frowned, not even bothering to look at his superior. "He spoke of the Fallen as how a priest of the Church would. Those... things behind him are bathed in the Light. This place has scattered powers of Light. I find it... quite difficult to put trust into his words and actions. For all we know, this could be a trap, Lucifer-sama." The way he addressed the man sounded too forced.

"It's obvious Fallen Angels make use of the Light—even if they'd been abandoned by Heaven, they are still capable of wielding the Light to their own wills, preferably for combat. A fight had evidently taken place here, and so the Light and its remnants can be felt. Even I feel it. But now that you've told me he's bathed in the Light... Tell me, Ghoul, what happens if you ate, perhaps, another special being other than a human? Does it entail consequences?"

The man was sharp, he admitted. For cannibalistic Ghouls, there were certain types that exhibited the formation of a kagune that covered the body of its wielder. Its strength and capacity was nothing to laugh at—it could go head to head with an Investigator's quinque and withstand what could come its way. Kakuja types were formidable that way.

Memories of his shattered psyche came flooding back. He had cannibalized before, and damned if it wasn't such a disastrous experience. Its power was nothing to take easy, both for enemy and wielder alike. The Centipede nearly broke him and his spirit, destroying almost all vestiges of sanity left within him. It wanted him to keep eating and eating, to consume more Ghouls and take their prized kagune, become stronger and stronger in order to survive and keep fighting for his life in the twisted world, _onethousandminussevenwhat'sonethousandminussevenithurtsithurtsfuckfuckfuckitssopainfulhahahahawhywontitfuuuuuuckingstooooop—_

He stopped there, feeling the migraine that threatened to come recede and slowly disappear. It was definitely a hard task keeping _that thing_ in check.

"I'm not entirely sure. Ghouls that cannibalize another can develop unique abilities by devouring the kagune, the unique organ Ghouls possess in order to hunt and consume humans. But if you're insinuating what I think you are..." The idea that he could somehow manifest a spear in his hands like magic seemed quite ludicrous at the moment.

The man laughed. "Of course, it's mere speculation. But from you've told me, I can only surmise that what you consume can have effects on your physiology, correct?"

Bullseye, right there. Eating human food weakened them, while human flesh improved combat proficiency and the overall health of a Ghoul. Perhaps nothing spectacular happened because humans were just too "normal" by physiological standards of a Ghoul. Cannibalism, however, has the possibility of granting them drastic changes that can make or break them; and if these were the situations that determined a Ghoul's ability to keep adapting and perhaps evolve further, what could eating Fallen Angels, or supernatural beings in general, for that matter, entail?

It was both a fascinating and chilling thought. After all, no choice could ever be without a consequence.

"If that's the case, then the 'Light' you keep talking about may be contained within me, yes?" The red-haired man nodded to him, confirming the suspicions both of them shared. The boy beside him finally chose to put down his blade, but did not sheathe it into any scabbard. Perhaps he was still on guard since he himself did not yet dismiss the tendrils that snaked behind him, almost like sentient beings.

"Now that that is out of the way, and that you have determined the identity of your little friends, I'd like to ask if you have an idea of what I—no, what we are." There was a glint in the man's eyes, almost quite challenging in his opinion. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd present himself as quite the academic, that it left behind an impression. Even if it were true, he dismissed the thought—it was not in his place to raise the pedestal upon which he stood on, nor was it his to assume what impression others have of him. He preferred it if things were just objective for the sense of understanding natures without bias, to assess without subjectivity the worth and the capabilities of an individual.

"Are you the Devil?" The man smiled, finding favor in his answer.

"I'm not _the_ Devil, but to be more accurate, I am _a_ Devil. And so is Kiba-kun." _A?_ The implications of having made use of an indefinite article were only so few and specific, that the answer was all too obvious to him.

"You are a race?" The man nodded. The idea was quite hard for his head to wrap around on, after all, he had not expected such a revelation.

The Devil, considered mostly through mythos as a singular entity, was mainly portrayed as the Adversity humanity must overcome in order to fully acknowledge the love of God and be free of the many temptations that bring one to sin. The most known one went by the name of Satan, whose name had roots that tied to the word Adversity. If the Devil was only depicted as one such being whose task was to make known to man its earthly desires, how come there was a whole race of them?

Then again, the D—no, _a_ Devil was right in front of him. If he had questions to ask, firsthand facts can be given. Perhaps he should also give human scriptures and sources of information the benefit of a doubt, recalling that not everything could really be found as entirely true and complete as recorded through ink and paper.

"Our kind has few pure-blooded Devils left, and as such we have created a means to rekindle the numbers we have lost through humanity—that is, by converting them into Devils, if they wish it so."

"Is that so..." Curiosity was biting deep into him, hungry for information. However, there was one reason he had to discover before any other query concerning Devil-kind. "Do you have an idea why they attacked me? The Fallen Angels, I mean."

The man leaned in, setting down the porcelain cup back on the table. His impassive features were washed over by a more contemplative one, but the fascinated look in his eyes somehow did not fit the expression he wore.

"My sister has told me she was greatly interested in you—not that she knew you were a... Ghoul, beforehand. No, there was another reason. A power that only few can dream of having; power desired by many, given to few, and made to acknowledge human desire. Humans have been given these over time, but the rarity and uniqueness of each is to be expected.

"Sacred Gears, we've called them. Power that has come from the extinguished life and the last vestiges of strength of the Biblical God. You possess one, Ghoul. Supernatural beings are quite the sensitive ones to the aura of a mortal in possession of a particularly strong one. In fact, even I could sense now the power that lies sleeping within you."

He was growing quite impatient, to say the least; however, he reined in any growing discomfort he had and managed to stay all the more calm to digest the answers he was receiving. "Are you saying the Fallen Angels were after that?"

"That, or they had viewed you as a potential threat, and as such found it a better method to kill you instead." He could not grasp the logic behind such an attack. Then again, they had attacked in a group, and a group of combined powers had an advantage of sorts in battle.

But that doesn't mean quantity was always better than quality.

"I see. It sounds plausible enough, I guess." _Crack_. His thumb had moved over his middle finger's second joint. The situation was putting more duress on him that he was sure his stress had become tangible enough to strike down with his kagune.

However, the revelation that he had some sort of "Gear" within him gave him mixed feelings. In the past, he'd throw himself at any chance to obtain power in order to become stronger. Strength to protect what mattered. Strength to _keep_ what mattered.

In the end, power was an illusion.

True, the powerful held dominance over all that come into their way. However, power was not the only way to protect, to preserve all that was worth caring for in his tragic existence. There were other ways, alternatives that had always existed. Yet he'd poison himself with such a thinking that getting stronger was the only way. He'd learned it all the hard way when he'd lost everything after realizing everything when he was too late.

He'd lost a lot because he chased after strength. Family, friends, loved ones, and even his sanity. His life had gone haywire. His own power devoured him.

Yet here it was—he'd been told that he'd been given what he loathe to seek. Just like that, fate was toying with him again. He knows something will be taken again, but what? He did not wish to forfeit his life that easily, not when he'd promise Akira. He was definitely not losing his life. But just what could be wanted of him that his peace would be broken just like this?

 _Crack._

If only it was easy enough that he could rip it to shreds with his tendrils.

"Sirzechs Lucifer." The man had stood from his seat, offering his right hand politely. He nodded, then stood from his own seat, sheathing his kagune back into his body. He took the man's hand with a firm grip, and gave it a good shake—he had appreciated that there was at least another person that day sane enough to be civil with him.

"Haise Sasaki."

He snapped himself out of his earlier reverie, and decided to oblige the man a final query as their hands parted. "Where has your sister gone?"

The man exhaled, and had quite the sour look despite the sad smile he gave. What bothered him some more was that the man did not even look him so in the eyes.

"She got married."

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 **A/N:**

 **This fic is not meant to last more than a few chapters. I know I've said earlier that it was going to be a one shot fic, but I then changed my mind—it was quite the pain in the ass to write, and writing a singular work with more than 18000 words is just not my style. Though I can appreciate how other writers do so, I am much more comfortable writing my own works in smaller scales so that people don't get too overwhelmed with the length. I'd like to practice condensing quality in a shorter span (say, 4000 – 8000 words) rather than have so many things happening or explaining so many things in long paragraphs that could otherwise be told in one or two.**

 **You can interpret the lead here as an AU Ken/Haise of sorts. Apart from that, I won't be saying anything—my major plan in this fic is to actually see if people would be bothered enough to speculate just about what the fvck happened to Tokyo Ghoul in Ken/Haise's AU past, and just what has gone wrong in this DxD AU. A divergence point lies in the past, but I'm too lazy to elaborate on it; which is why I'll try to see if anyone curious enough would try to rack his/her brains on this one.**

 **Key phrase: try to see. I'm crossing my fingers I can develop this well enough to have people actually speculating. I'm trying to develop writing skills here, people. Hahahaha. I might get around to ending this short story in maybe five or six chapters only.**

 **I also appreciate all the support Sine Faciem has been getting, it's a really great feeling to know that a lot of people actually like what I put out. I don't promise an update so soon, but I'am already working out stuff on it so expect one later, but not so soon. Period. I've been steadying myself as I get back into writing, and damn, it's a liberating feeling to write again with very little worries.**

 **I'll be doing my best to write a lot more while vacation is still on-going (school's back in a few days -_-), but again I'd like to remind people that I won't be promising any quick updates. Especially on this one. I'd like to shift my focus first on Sine Faciem, Memento Vivere, and Non Omnis Moriar.**

 **Read, review, and drop a line. Tell me what you liked, what went wrong, and stuff you'd like to suggest. Comments help me be creative, as long they are not worthless, waste-of-time flames.**


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing. Except the story.

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How long has it been since she's seen the light?

The passing of time has become lost to her. Darkness surrounded her. Cold air enveloped her body. The faint flickering of a nearby flame and the dripping sound of water inside her cell were the only things she could hear, aside from her breathing and her occasional sobbing.

She had resigned herself to her fate, ever since she had lost that Rating Game with the Phenex lad. Of course, she had prepared her peerage as well—she had broken her contract with them so as to have them be free of whatever Riser had in store for them. It was enough that she be treated like this, as long as it was not her family. To have her shamed and pained, rather than them.

Her dear brother had taken the rest of them in, all too gladly for her sake. Even Sirzechs' features had started to become blurry in her mind, and last she saw him he had the most sorrowful expression she'd ever seen. No, she did not wish to see him like that. The image of a strong leader, brimming with confidence and wits about him—yes, that was something she would rather remember her dear brother by.

There was another individual still who'd pass through her thoughts every once in a while.

She'd remember the scent of coffee, and the welcoming tranquility of that shop. The way it put her at ease, and made her feel nothing else but the fleeting experience of having nothing bother her was something she yearned to feel again. And then her memory would flash back to that person, smiling mysteriously at her, his gaze warm and knowing—as if he were an old friend of sorts. His pristine, white hair blended with the black and white of his cafe, although it did not exude that dullness from such a monochromatic combination. Rather, it emitted a simple beauty and elegance to it, with a deep message of sorts that perhaps no one person could easily decipher—perhaps something stemming from the cafe owner's experience in life. Yes, even the name _Murakami_ had managed to etch itself into her memory.

A kind, charming, person. Yes, that was something she would have wanted in a man. Someone who would love her as she was, not because she was tied to things like nobility, power, or titles. It was purely idealistic in view, but wasn't that every maiden's heartfelt wish? Even if the possibility of it occurring in reality was close to zero?

It was a futile wish, a false hope for one who has already been dealt the cards of a deck that no longer exists to give any more chances. She was a prisoner, rendered powerless by the device strapped around her neck that nullified any sort of internal magical power. As of the moment, she was no more than a decoration for Riser Phenex's ego and a tool for the continuation of his bloodline. That was as she had been told.

She had not been touched yet, however—Riser was currently dabbling in business that required too much of his time, and that has resulted to minimal contact between the two of them. Last she'd heard, Riser Phenex had become part of a large conspiracy that went beyond the Underworld. It had primarily consisted of supplying Phoenix Tears to a number of clients, but as to what purpose, she knew nothing of. A gut feeling told her it was something catastrophic, and may as well lead to an event that concerned the important factions upon this world. Nevertheless, it was just delaying the inevitable, and did not change the fact that she was trapped in the fate life had chosen for her.

She wanted to see them again—her loved ones, her peerage, and that little cafe in Kuoh. She wanted to reach the ranks of the higher Devils, to be recognized not by name but through effort, to be there when her peerage members overcome the boundaries that had to be crossed for the sake of improving, and to fall in love just as she would want to. All these things, no matter how they had been already denied from her, were still what she had desired. What she had dreamed of having.

And so the sadness came over her again. It was all that came and went to visit her in the desolate cell she had been locked in deep within Riser Phenex's mansion, by the lower floors constituting a dungeon for prisoners.

No matter how much she had already wept, the tears still fell from the imprisoned Rias Gremory's forlorn eyes.

* * *

He'd thought himself the selfless one, willing to provide aid to anyone as long as they needed it. To help another was never an idea beyond him, even if it meant that he was to lose his happiness in the process—but then again, seeing the smiles of those around him more than accounted for that.

He'd thought he was the one growing strong. To help others meant he was more than capable to do so with his own strength and abilities. As reluctant as he was to admit, both Yamori and Rize had triggered the needed change in him in order for him to realize what gaining power meant—power to help the suffering, and power to protect his and the others' joy. The idea of defeating one who was stronger than him, no matter how overwhelming the odds are, was never beyond him. His fight with Shachi before was testament to both his willingness and recklessness to do so.

By the end of his tale, he'd gone mad.

Selflessness was never his reason. It was his selfishness. His greed to preserve the happiness he'd never had before. His voracity to keep the things that mattered to him. And it drove him over the edge, past the point of sanity. He acknowledged that he was weak, and by being weak he was vulnerable to losing everything he had. And so he turned to power. To the dark entity lurking beneath the unseen fissures of his psyche. The power that took everything from him, ironically, when he'd faced the most grueling of challenges.

That was how he lived as "Ken Kaneki."

But life was a sick, twisted, puppeteer. It had more plans. It had more stories to tell, and tales to make or break. It had decided that it was worth giving him another shot, and gave him a clean slate. The perfect way to start from scratch and rewrite his thinking on who he truly was.

He'd become someone who valued the lives of his comrades, concerning himself over them like a father would and not merely as siblings. Then there were all his coworkers at CCG; some, he was close to like family; others, a workplace relationship that maintained a degree of respect, with a hint of hostility and distrust at times.

He approached his battles with a more careful pace. He was never complacent no matter what the enemy, and took great care to face differently ranked Ghouls especially when he knew that the odds were stacked against him. Though there was such a thing as being too careful, he could not bear to hold any risks that would place his comrades in any potential danger. Like how a parent would worry over a child, he'd rather be hurt than watch people important to him become nothing more than cold corpses, fading into distant memories.

Yet no matter how much he relied on his own strength, moments had come where he still came up short, being the weaker one on the stage of combat. It made him seek power, made him want to give up _anything_ if it meant to help and to protect. And it was by that temptation that he still used the power he was reluctant to draw upon, one that he loathed as equally as he loved his humanity. Living in fear that he would lose control over it, fearing that it would do more worse than good.

And so was the life of the one known as "Haise Sasaki," of whose name he still carried on until the present.

 _But, really, who am I now?_

* * *

It was that place again.

The tiled floor, akin to a chessboard, was outfitted with squares of alternating black and white, dirtied by faint stains of blood, dust, and fluids that have long dried. The ceiling above him curved as it was a dome, each panels of glass above murky and translucent with dirt, while other broken ones allowed him the sight of the reddish sky outside. He was seated in that same, rigid chair, where the touch of its surface brought him flashes of memories he longed to forget and sensations he wished he never felt.

Yes, it was that same observatory Yamori used, where he began his descent into madness.

Yet there was something utterly different, apart from the fact that Yamori was not there, or that he was not shackled to the seat. The place seemed larger, its corridor spanning around him in an area far larger than what he remembered. He noticed soon, as well, the lingering smell of rot and death in the air, and it was stronger than any he's ever smelled.

 **[And so we meet.]**

A booming voice echoed from in front of him, one of command and of power. Its tone was laced with both age and wisdom, enough to even shake the very core of his being. He raised his head and looked forward to the looming figure in the center of the room—a being of size and strength, more ancient than the annals of any myth or legend. Its body was armored in scales of crimson, ironically bathing it somewhat in the supposed blood of all it has slain. The wings behind its back unfurled and revealed scars and old wounds that no doubt wouldn't hamper its ability to soar through the boundless heavens. Its claws were bathed in flames and glowed like white-hot steel taken out of the forge. Its fangs were blades sharp enough to tear through any known material, putting any known sword of legend to shame. By its snouted head were two, emerald orbs that trailed its sight unto his meager form, looking on not with hostility, but with a sense of curiosity and fascination.

 **[You seek strength. You seek to end the curse that you are. And where else shall your quest lead you, other than an avatar of power such as I?]**

Flames flickered around the reptile, and as his eyes adjusted a little more to the lighting from it did he only take notice of the skulls and bones that lay underneath its figure. What surprised him, however, was the gigantic centipede it had held down with its claws and legs. The dragon was clearly feasting on it, feeding on the large insect and crunching down on its tough exoskeleton like it was nothing else but an additive to make the meal far more delectable.

 **[Never have I had a host with a soul as mangled as yours. Mortal, speak your name, so that the Crimson Emperor may give his own.]**

"…" He knew not what to make of the situation at this point, and so he decided that perhaps the best course of action would be to acquiesce to the being's requests for the moment. As much as this seemed like a dream, the sensations he felt were all too _real_ to be anything but such.

"Haise Sasaki."

 **[Oh? You'll go by the name of your other self?]**

The way the dragon had phrased it was of interest to him—how did it know of the inner turmoils within him?

"… 'Ken Kaneki' has become a curse, and 'Haise Sasaki' is the being who carries the burden of many. Even if the curse is the real 'me,' I would rather not forget the onus I carry with this life."

There were things only "Haise" could protect, and these were the things "Ken" had long lost. "Haise" may only be the shadow created by the maddening light "Ken" was blinded with, but it was with that name that he would do right by the lives he had chosen to never forget. In the end, the shadow was the one who had stayed behind and protected all that was left of him. Sometimes even the light could be so bright it blinded one from the things that truly mattered, that they blindly follow their beliefs, no matter how full of fissures, into the edge of time. Shadow was never truly darkness, nor was it born simply from light—it was an entity in the middle of it all, sometimes fading and sometimes darkening, yet it was always there.

And that was how he wished to be, in order to always remember what needed to be remembered. In a world where light and dark simultaneously existed, he would be the one to stand in the middle of it all for those who could not choose between any two. Guide them as he will into a place they would belong.

The dragon chuckled, a deep rumbling that rose from its throat and resounded through the hall with gravel in its tone. It was not mocking nor gloating from the gesture, rather he sensed a fascinated glee from the beast, although he was unsure as to why.

 **[Interesting. Then the Welsh Dragon, who goes by title of Crimson Emperor, gives his name. Ddraig is what you may call this ancient one.]**

Yes. He was familiar with the name—it was one worthy of song and legend, of the terrors it wrought upon thousands of enemies, of the benevolence of its being, and of the tremendous power it exuded just from merely existing upon the earth. Truly, Ddraig was the ire of many of his kind, an Emperor whose strength brought forth epics, telling tales of glorious battles only so few historians have ever managed to inscribe into even fewer parchments, of annals that seldom knew existed. Wonder was pushed to the back of his mind, however, when curiosity posed him the question as to why the dragon had appeared before him—in what felt like his mind, as well.

 **[To begin with, my being here is obviously not physical—it is but my soul that you see this moment. The essence of my being, so as to say.]**

He nodded, knowing that it was truly impossible to actually have a dragon of this size existing physically within his own body. Just the thought of the dragon being here, however, was a question begging for an answer.

 **[However, it seems that I have only been recently passed to you. The untimely death of my previous host irked me, but fate seemed gracious enough to have had you come at the right time—though I cannot hide the fact that I was mildly surprised to have landed here after you've… _consumed_ my previous host.]**

He had actually regretted that decision, however. For some reason, he gained the ability to access a few of the memories of the people he'd consumed, and the memories that he gained were usually significant (at least, he thought they were) to the person. He was disgusted with the brown-haired lad's perverse memories, but soon enough pitied the lad—someone who was never regarded by his parents and peers, talentless and ignored; yet had the potential and selflessness to protect what mattered to him, to safeguard his bonds and never back down from life's challenges. If only the world had more people like him, perhaps even his own experience with his loved ones back in Anteiku and CCG would have been different. They would be living, and living in a world abound with the cause to live for others apart from personal sake.

As idealistic as it was, it was a worthwhile dream to his belief. No matter how much reality served to tell him otherwise countless times before.

 **[Our link has told me so much about you, and I must say, your abilities intrigue me. For one so broken and battered by life, your strength is admirable, and your resolve even more so. Never have I encountered a creature like you. Although I must say, I am adverse to the idea of sharing the space of this den—which is why I have taken care of the nuisance you've had for a while. A bothersome tenant, this one was to say the least.]**

As if reacting, the centipede (which has regenerated most of what it has lost) squirmed underneath him, to which Ddraig's response was to tighten his grip and take a bite off of its body. As the Emperor chewed and crunched through the tough creature, he felt a little disturbed at the sight—almost as if the feeling crawling down his spine was the most minute sensation of _him being eaten_.

 **[The madness you hold—it is power beyond your control. Instead of evolving you it has become poison to your body and venom to the mind. Strong, yes, but a tad bit too unreliable. Which is why I am here to tell you something that will be beneficial to both our cause and existence. But before that, tell me…]**

The flames around Ddraig vanished, and the mountain of bones underneath him began trembling. Fragments aligned themselves, and pieces connected. Where there existed only death, life began to breathe once more as tissue, muscle, sinews, and blood vessels formed over the decaying os. In front of the Crimson Emperor rose figures that, to his horror, were reminders of his dreaded past.

 **[How worthy are you to be the Crimson Emperor's vessel of dauntless potential?]**

Shachi. Ayato. Kureo Mado. Amon. Eto. Nutcracker. Madam A. Rize. A slew of Aogiri Ghouls. The Fallen Angels he'd slain. And at the center of it all… Yamori. Enemies he'd fought through grit, yet ended up having to resort to madness in order to match—here they were, appearing as the horrors he'd thought he'd never have to see again. To lay his eyes on them again… it was nothing short of a nightmare for him.

It drove him mad.

 _One thousand… m-minus… seven…_

The surge began. His hand found itself clutching the side of his head that had began pounding in intense pain. He felt his kakugan activate without warning as the waves that strained his head came and went, almost as if he was in some sort of painful inebriation.

Their numbers grew. He saw the faces of those from Anteiku. Tsukiyama. Hirako and the rest of the Qs, the squad he had mentored and handled. Akira and all the CCG officials he'd worked with. And then there was Arima amidst them, wearing that calm and calculated expression as his fingers tapped impatiently on the quinque case he held.

 _Fingers… on the bench… centipede… in my ear…!_

 **[Will you overcome your past, and tame the beast lurking deep within your mind? Or will you break and be rendered useless once and for all, unable to ever regain the resolve once lost and finally give in to the madness that sleeps?]**

He gritted his teeth and pushed forth the tendrils of red behind him, hitching a breath as they forcibly jutted out from his back. He squeezed the blade-like quinque that manifested in his right hand, the trusty weapon he'd wield as an Investigator. His breaths were ragged, similar to whenever he was at wits end in battle while the darkness within him swirled for a contest of dominance over the shared body of Ken/Haise.

"I will… _I will_ …!"

Before him next appeared a swirling mass of darkness, with all the people of his past caught up dead center. One by one, each individual was torn asunder into uncountable pieces. And then, when all the wind had died down did he see the figure that had come into existence from the coalesced horrors and wonders of his life.

Draped in a tattered black shirt and white pants shredded to the knee area. White hair fluttering softly from whatever breeze blew by. Sneering with blood-caked teeth. Staring back with maddened eyes of mismatched colors. Pairs of red and black-armored tendrils swinging around impatiently from behind, like insect segments anxiously crawling all over a surface.

 _Crack._

Its right thumb hovered delicately above the middle finger, slowly pressing down and producing a resounding _crack_ that followed from the index. Saliva dripped down from the maddened grin on its predatory face, looking on at him with hungry eyes from the kakugan on both eyes. Black ooze poured out from its forehead, forming a strange mask upon its face that draped it in a macabre facade that only served to _amplif_ _y_ the aura of dread it already exuded.

 **[Prove your worth, Haise. Show me what you're made of.]**

* * *

"Finally woke up, huh? And here I thought you'd finally kick the bucket."

A dull headache welcomed him together with an all too familiar voice back into the present. The smell of antiseptic and various chemicals tingled his olfactory sense, indicatory of perhaps a clinic or a laboratory. He'd been here before on occasional visits, so memory told him that his location was actually both. But the resident who owned it, however, was not the average doctor, nor was he the average chemist.

Despite the height, the short temper, and the prosthetic left leg, he did consider the man to be a reliable friend and aid. It was quite ironic, he admitted, that the man's sincerity did not reflect on the state of his residence, however. It still looked like a seedy establishment from the outside.

"… How long was I out?" The voice that exited his mouth were croaked out, and so did he only realize of how dry his throat was. The other resident of the room stood by his bedside, handing him a glass of water that he thankfully accepted.

The blond, dressed in a lab coat over a usual office attire, pulled out a silver pocket watch and glanced at the time for a short moment before answering. "About two hours. You were moving a lot too. Boogeyman got you or something?"

"You can say that." A shrug was the only reply Haise received from the blond. He'd always appreciate how the man never really probed into what troubled people, just like he did now.

"Well, if you're this lucid, I'm sure you're good to go already. The redhead who came with you here told me you can meet him in front of Kuoh Academy, and that you should bring along 'that paper.' Said you knew what to do with it. Not that it concerns me, anyway, but he had the same damn aura as Mephistopheles. Sonuvabitch hasn't shown up in a while, too…"

The white-haired lad got off the bed and stretched out, finally feeling the headache subside into a manageable bother. His hand dug into his pocket, and found the parchment riddled with different runes that he had made use of a little earlier. Magic, Devils, Fallen Angels… It was still quite an idea far too foreign to him, but then again, there _was_ another unexplainable thing with him within that clinic—one who had a knack for getting into weird experiments and all kinds of trouble.

Perhaps weird things were just a magnet for trouble—like how he was a Ghoul, for example.

"I'll be off then. Thanks for the _treatment_."

"Sometimes it's kind of irksome that I'm the only guy that specializes in this crap. But, yeah, don't mention it. You live long enough, and you get used to doing this. Same payment as usual, okay?"

"… One of these days, you're going to have me run out of coffee from all the free cups you're getting."

"Hohoho, I intend to do just that. You can't really complain if I do a damn good job at what I do. And I'll be around for a while, too, just to enjoy a good cup of coffee by _Murakami_. After all, immortality's a bitch." The two shared a mutual grin, somehow reducing the tension that's welled up within Haise. Good friends were quite the luxury for him, he admitted.

As _Murakami's_ owner exited the premises, the blond clapped his hands together, charging the air with momentary energy as small lines of electricity crackled from both of his scarred hands.

"Right, now where's my other coat…"

* * *

"I never expected you to be friends with an alchemist. I've thought them long gone, what with magicians becoming the more lucrative and trending job of this age."

He was seated in what was a lavish office within one of the buildings of Kuoh Academy. A lone desk of expensive (he surmised) wood, for some leader or high officer of sorts; a sala set complete with comfortable sofas; antique objects that ranged from fascinating to disturbing that were hung on the walls or placed on shelves and displays; and wooden shelves that were lined with tomes of already peeling covers and bids.

Students were already long gone, and the night meant that only the patrolling guards were around. It seemed that Sirzechs Lucifer's authority extends even to the human world, where the school was apparently part of the Gremory family's liabilities for all the young Devils and accompanying peerages that attended the prestigious institution, as well as used it as a headquarters of sorts.

"Well, sad to say he's been around for quite some time now. He's told me that he made a deal once with someone, who turns out to be one of your kind." He knew how much his acquaintance had come to regret that decision, however. But sometimes, everyone made choices that were past who they were once they lost people so close to heart. The alchemist had lost his wife and children to an accident that he claimed to be his fault, and wanted nothing more than to see them again, for them to live a life that was deprived of them.

And in that time of weakness did a Devil come, and offered a deal—an irresistible one, for that matter, to the blond clinic owner.

"Then he must have been born quite some time ago. Devils of today no longer make this cliched 'in exchange for your soul' type of deals with humans, as far as our race is concerned. But then again, a select few are still quite loyal to this rite, and would want nothing more but so. I can only hope your friend has found peace, despite the harsh things he must have gone through for the time he's lived."

It was quite funny to him, actually, that his friend got the sympathy of a Devil, kindred to the one who had so tempted him to make the worst decision of his life. Then again, he found that Sirzechs was a good person in his own right, and his claims have rang with nothing short of sincerity and truth. Unfairly judging the many based on the few was never him, after all.

"But, I digress. I'll be holding up my end of the bargain first before you do—after all, I was the one who asked the favor."

Shortly after the two had their exchange within the dilapidated confines of what was previously the cafe _Murakami_ , he was mildly surprised to have been met with a favor from Sirzechs Lucifer. Of course, if what the Devil had told him about his rank in the Underworld was true (he didn't really doubt it that much), then it meant a serious request from an important man of symbol and stature. And he was a Devil noble, no less. Meaningless as these things were to humans who obviously don't even have to concern themselves with such problems, the natural spark to help when within his reach was both temptation and habit to Haise. He'd taken up Yoshimura-san's philosophy and wanted to live it not as penance but as a way of remembering people important to him—those he'd never hesitate to help.

And so he acquiesced to the Maou after hearing him out, and made it a fair trade by asking a favor of the Devil as well. There was something he needed to check, and it meant tracking down a number of _property damagers._ Information on the current state of things was important, and it meant having to be prepared for any of the Three Factions accounted to by the redhead standing in front of him. Right now, Devils were of interest to him, but Fallen Angels were of higher priority to him.

The operation he was about to pull off was also a probable way to test his newfound abilities, and bring out the power the Maou had mentioned before that the Fallen considered reason enough to deal with him. Even Ddraig doesn't seem too opposed to the idea, as well.

"I understand. Please, continue."

* * *

It was ironic that he'd found them within the confines of an abandoned church.

Sirzechs has told him that the place has been empty for the past three decades or so, having been forgotten by the Church as a relic of the past and nothing more. Perhaps it was due to the incident the Maou had told him about, one where a deranged group of zealots were discovered sacrificing virgin maidens in the altar of the location and performing various rituals that they claimed were "for the greater glory of our Father." Perhaps it was also a coincidence that it was left that way—a reminder of bloody past that was never meant for such a place. It reminded him of that observatory Yamori had trapped him in.

The similar feeling he had when he first met the Maou and his subordinate began welling up within him—the sensation of purging darkness until there was naught a shred of it left. The more it flowed into him, the more he considered the theory that having eaten the two Fallen Angels from earlier affected his physiology just as the act of cannibalizing a Ghoul transformed him. If it would do him more benefit than harm was still up for debate, however.

 **[The sensation you feel is akin to anxiety and excitement before battle. It would be wise to dismiss it as such for now; unnecessary discomforts only do you disservice and unleash the dark within you much easier.]**

"Well, if you put it that way, I guess the Centipede got more rampant the more nervous I was." It made sense that his crazed power gained initiative to burst out of him during his more emotional moments, especially when he lapsed into the horrendous traumas of his past.

 **[But you possess better control of it now, so perhaps my worries are for naught. Hmph. Carry on then, youngling. The powers that be here… such irksome creatures.]**

"Eeeeeh, who the fuck are you? Anybody ever tell ya to knock before going in? Shitty people these days, ain't even got a shred of manners left!"

A young man stood by the entrance of the dilapidated church, holding with him two blades that seemed almost alive with the aureate shine they possessed. There was a bestial glint in the lad's eyes, one that was familiar to him. It was a look of lunacy, of depravity and of fantasy. Despite the staple clothes of a priest he was in, the maniacal aura he exuded told him otherwise of the hostile's background.

 **[… Well, well. An exorcist who reeks of sin and insanity. I doubt it's a good thing he's holding a pair of dangerous holy swords.]**

"Exorcist? Like from the Church? And what do you mean by holy swords?"

 **[Exorcists combat the supernatural that the Church views as a threat to the faction they side with. Those holy swords… are weapons creatures affiliated with darkness _should_ learn to fear. For the Excalibur blades to be here of all places, though…]**

Excalibur… It was a sword that had quite the reputation among the many that were given birth to by myths and legends. Wielded by the leader of the Round Table's knights, it was more than just a weapon that lay waste to the many who opposed King Arthur. It too was a symbol of his sovereign rule and his right to be king, and ironically of the fate that would befall him by the end of his tale.

However, the fact that Ddraig mentioned the legendary sword in the plural sense begged a question in of itself.

 **[I have heard that the Church had split them into multiple swords, of which each were given an attribute unique to the one Excalibur. So the one sword of multiple powers was split into the many blades carrying each a piece of the whole.]**

"Ho~, you smell like those damn Fallen Angels, but that's not the only thing you reek of. Ah, whatever," the priest's grin doubled in size as bloodlust clearly reflected on his eyes, "I was getting bored of fucking those girls they've captured, so I guess killing trespassers ain't such a bad to spend time."

The lad dashed off towards him in an instant, closing in the distance between them almost in the blink of an eye. Haise's reflexes kicked in, parrying the swinging blades with his kagune. The activation of his kakugan gave him better vision of the evening, and gave him a clearer look at the exorcist's movements.

"The fuck's with those eyes and tentacles? You're not a Devil, that's for sure, but something about _obviously_ screams inhuman. Ah, does it really matter? You'll be shitstain in a few moments, so I guess it's no use thinking about it too much."

"… Quite a mouth he's got. Worse than Ayato." The sentence passed his lips as a disgusted whisper as he narrowed his eyes at his foe. He had to finish this fast, lest he wanted reinforcements to arrive and compromise his whole reason for coming in the first place.

 _Crack._

He darted forward and spun, red tendrils spinning around him and readied to parry any hit from the exorcist.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why the _fuck_ can't I cut you up?! Fucking _stay still, goddammit!_ "

Constantly moving and never taking his eyes off of the sword-wielding opponent, he pushed his body to move as fast as it could to match the priest's own pace. For a normal person to move that fast just wasn't possible, but in this world that worked all too differently from his, then perhaps the key to knowing the abilities of this exorcist…

 **[A correct deduction—those troublesome swords allow him to fight like so.]**

Changing strategies and adapting in battle was not simply a phenomenon unique to few battles as a Ghoul—it was a basic concept to do so. Arima had always taught him to never rely on just one way to best an opponent, because doing so spelled nothing but arrogance, hardheadedness, and death. If one were to succeed, it was by patiently waiting for the opponent to reveal their weak points one piece at a time, then exploiting them until the foe was nothing but an empty shell with lost strength and all impuissance.

"Drop dead and please just die, for fuck's sake! I'm not letting anyone else have my evening fun, so come here and get cut up by my Excalibur swords before those Angels come!"

He darted in, to which the priest replied in earnest with a rising slash to his shoulder. He spun his body in order for the sword to miss him, exactly timing the arc with utmost care that he felt the sword pass by his back as he turned. The red kagune then shot out and pierced through the exorcist's right shoulder, turning as it did in order to penetrate flesh more easily.

The alarmed cries from the exorcist was music to the kagune as it glowed slightly, delighting in the blood that flowed down on it. In a swift twist to the side, Haise pulled in the priest with his tendril and landed a corkscrew uppercut to the lad's gut. Air forcibly exited him, and so did blood and saliva. Two more of the crimson tendrils shot out; one which restrained the uninjured arm, while the other wrapped on the priest's neck to choke him.

Before he could move his tendril to twist the foe's neck and leave the corpse crownless, sharp pain invaded the nerve endings behind him. The familiarity of it all gave him a bad realization of the situation as he released the priest and tumbled back, dodging the glowing projectiles sent his way.

 _Spears of light… well, I'll be damned._

"Tch. You're really beginning to be thorn by our side."

"Cool it, Raynare. We need to finish him here and now, both for the sake of Kokabiel-sama and the comrades he's killed."

The remainder of _Murakami's_ visitors earlier were up in the air, with the same get-up as before and the similar black wings that jutted out from their backs. The venom in their eyes were directed at him, clearly demanding his blood be spilled and his body be desecrated for the sake of their kin. He met their glares with an impassive look, focusing on his goal.

He analyzed the situation. Though he could easily defeat the Fallen Angels, the problem lay in the priest who was still standing. Battered his body may be, as long as he still had the two Excalibur swords in hand, he was as dangerous as a cornered predator. His speed was also a problem, and that would make it clearly more difficult to also pay attention when the airborne opponents would fling spears at him.

His odds were slimming.

"Guuuh, you bitches! Do you have _any idea_ how troublesome this bastard is? God, I fucking thought he was gonna rip my fap arm off!"

"Can it, Freed! We know just as you do how hard it is to crush this cockroach." The girl in bondage leather, revealing too much skin for his taste, spat out with a bitter and irate tone.

"But a cockroach is just a cockroach, so it doesn't matter—you're not leaving this place alive!"

Both winged women pelted him spears, throwing with complete disregard for the exorcist on the ground, seemingly fine with the idea of skewering him if it meant death for Haise as well. He clicked his tongue in annoyance as he sprinted to the side, dodging the rain of projectiles coming down his way. As he moved, Freed sped up beside him, wildly swinging the blades in his hands in unpredictable arcs that were to difficult to dodge. He swatted at the exorcist with his tendrils, aiming to parry the blades while he gave a little more focus on the spears sent his way.

Suddenly, the sound ringing metal filled his ears for a split second, before he spotted a spark of blue in a nearby grove. Pillars of stone, sharpened at the end, shot upward towards the Fallen Angels, making them scatter from their position.

He made use of the disturbance and kicked off the distracted exorcist to a nearby tree, with Freed colliding onto the trunk with a dull _thud_. He guessed that that was enough to at least fracture some of the bones on the priest's spine. He turned towards the origin of the pillars that now stayed in place like statues, and saw an approaching figure draped with a red coat around his broad shoulders. His long blond hair was tied to a ponytail behind him, the usual hairstyle he's always preferred. Behind his spectacles were eyes that looked like they were tired of witnessing days pass almost endlessly, as if they were so ancient in watching over the course of the world's events. The handsome face, however, did not match the fatigue in the eyes—he still looked like a man in his late twenties.

"Quite a nightlife you got, Haise. Beats my boring evening strolls 'round Kuoh by a mile."

The clinic owner gave the white-haired cafe owner a small grin, eyes flaring up with vigor and excitement. Haise sighed, returning the smile almost like he knew what was exactly on the man's mind.

And the fact was he _actually_ did.

 _Crack._

"I get the Fallen Angels. Both of them."

The blond cracked his knuckles, and them pressed his hands together, the gesture producing a spark of blue energy that crackled in the air.

"Then let me have fun with the sword brat. Fullmetal wants to kick ass tonight."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Well whaddya know, I freakin' finished this before the rest of my Persona fics. Unbelievable.**

 **For some reason, writing _Colorless_ is therapeutic to me in more ways than one. People who've went through depression and are still going through it need some sort of way to cope or altogether find a way to keep them from reaching that dark place, and this is what did it for me. I can vent out in my writings about the thoughts that haunt me, but I think I'll be reserving the darker ones for this one (not that it'll be too morbid). Fanfics have gained more meaning for me lately because of the troubles I've been experiencing, so I hope people don't mind some of the things I put out.**

 **Apologies. Enough of that IRL rant.**

 **You might be wondering why I included _that_ character here, all of a sudden. Actually, to be perfectly honest, even I _don't know_. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing, and by the time I was done, I was thinking "Why the fvck is _he here_? Ah, crap, I'll just roll with this."**

 **Now that I think about it, I kinda like the idea, actually. I mean, if magicians existed in the DxD-verse, then why the hell not alchemists? Just a side note. Hahaha. But it does give me the idea that a few more characters may pop up (but that's not to say they'll _all_ be alchemists; they may be people from other anime/manga, too). There's no need for worry, too—I know exactly just when a story gets too cramped with too many characters. The crossover of characters that I got inspired with will be kept to a bare minimum.**

 **It's obvious that some events here were skipped over. Well, I wanted to reserve some of them for the workings of later flashbacks so that I can explain and go over some things a little bit better. Aside from that, the more minute events were just too tedious and unimportant to write, to say the least.**

 **Ddraig's depiction is also different. I wanted to go with one that flaunts his identity as a dragon with pride and power, kinda like how _The Hobbit_ depicted Smaug. Kinda. I'm just tired of the whole Oppai Dragon thing. I just think a being of his caliber deserves some more justice as a mythological creature, which is what I'm after with some of the other DxD characters. But that doesn't mean Ddraig or any other character will be too serious just to accommodate the tone of _Tokyo Ghoul_. Just putting it out there.**

 **As of the moment, I'm still thinking of what to do with Ddraig at this point. I'm not to keen with giving Haise/Ken the Boosted Gear. I wanted something different, something that would be quite nice to pair up with his Ghoul-ic abilities, and even represents him to an extent. But definitely _not_ something that gives him a cheap power-up or resembles a simple quinque. These are the reasons I came up with that's giving me a headache on what to do with Haise/Ken's apparent Sacred Gear.**

 **Read, review, and drop a line. Tell me what you liked, what went wrong, and stuff you'd like to suggest. Comments help me be creative, as long they are not worthless, waste-of-time flames. Thanks for reading.**


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing. Except the story.

* * *

"Where does one draw the line between sorcery and alchemy?"

He was sure that was rhetorical, but then again perhaps it might have really been an outright question. But he could not answer. He _would not_ answer. After all, he was unfamiliar with the former and biased with the latter—factors that would no doubt lead him to form words and weave sentences that would no doubt dissatisfy the gentleman across the table he was seated in front of.

Now, if there was anything gentle about him, he wouldn't choose to answer that as well.

It was a brisk early morning upon the unholy hours of the day, not that they'd feel the actuality of it from within the confines of a local bar. It was one of the few that offered services past the hours of midnight and onto the crack of dawn, and was only frequented at such hours for the special brews that helped lose headaches caused by all-night beer parties. Perhaps the reason the place could afford to go on with such a schedule was that the barkeepers-slash-owners it had were siblings who worked different shifts, and that the early morning staff comprised of some of their own cousins and relatives.

"Sorcery," _ah, it was rhetorical then_ , the blond man thought "originates from beings above human recognition—gods of old, creatures of myth, powers beyond your earthly realm. It is an art that manipulates elements that comprise all of existence: bending rules to convenience an individual; shaping the formless to one's design; even, in some very rare cases, breaking the very definitions they were meant to uphold as they were known.

"Men and women of time long forgotten, who were mediums of these beings or have interacted with them in some way, were the first to have practiced arts that were imparted upon them, when they were deemed worthy of it by powerful non-mortals. And so they were passed down, until in your annals were recorded figures who were given rise into history by the power they had been handed."

The man paused, politely thanking the waitress that had stopped by in front of their table to serve them their choice of drinks. A bark of laughter came from the man after taking a sip out of the warm tea served before him. "Ironic that they were ended by the very same thing that allowed them to etch their marks into history."

Of course, he'd learned of this after he had been transported into this world upon the insistence of the man in front of him. This world was one where myth and history coincided, blurred only in connection by the limits of what could be recorded on paper, and what would be perceived by the human mind as truthful and believable. This world was a hotspot for all sorts of arts and secrets that went beyond human imagination, and that fact alone magnified his feeling of being an ant that would no doubt have a quarrel with the boots of the heavens. If heroes, demigods, and people of position were played with as pawns of the greater forces of the universe, then what was he, a mere Truth-Seeker, compared to them? What role did he play in the grand schemes of the universe?

Perhaps he was just an ant on the chessboard, then—not even worthy to be called a pawn like greater men. Then again, perhaps everyone else were.

"The human lifespan pales in comparison to that of gods of old and creatures of longevity. What passes for a lifetime for you may simply be a stage of childhood or pubescence for us. No one man is truly capable of mastering the arts practiced by beings far from mortal reach—no man had time long enough to learn beyond what he had already learned, or learn something he has yet to know. And so your kind's greed and desire for knowledge and power gave birth to the chase for the vitality humans did not possess." The man made a face, and he realized that that was his cue to speak of an answer too obvious, too known to him and perhaps no one else.

"Alchemy."

He'd known. He'd _always_ known. Alchemy was but a means to an end, to reach far beyond what was comprehended by the human mind. To combat sickness meant to possess endless life. To possess endless life meant to learn infinitely. And to learn infinitely meant to one day find a way to reach the elusive Truth of this world—the Truth that would set free humanity _literally_ , unshackling them from the mortality that bound them to the meager existence they've always been.

"At first it had been ' _to use magic to bring us riches._ ' And when mortals learned they did not possess life long enough to learn how to do so, they wanted ' _to become immortal._ ' That is the origin of alchemy's early goals—to turn any known metal into gold, and to achieve immortality. Lo and behold, such an end gave birth to what you would come to know as the Philosopher's Stone. Funnily enough, it had also come to be known as the Sorcerer's Stone to some, relating its imagined power to that of how sorcery could bend the very laws of the world. Ah, let me rectify that: relating its _real_ power."

Of course, there was nothing imagined about that dreaded Stone.

"Then again, mortals could never grant Immortality Most True to another—it is a power that rests within those of the higher plane, of beings who take power from Primordial Rules since time immemorial. Even if there exist gods who could grant such a thing, these are gods who were blessed and chosen alone by those same beings who precede everything within existence, supernatural or not.

"But what does this mean, Mr. Elric? What is it that is revealed by this very fact, and how does it describe the supposed eternal life brought about by the result of your kind's pursuit of it?"

He had long learned of this truth already, and such an ugly one it was. If all other alchemists had become privy of it, there would be those who would deny it wholeheartedly, not believing the existence of gods and beings so ancient and convincing themselves that humans were beings who were privy to bending and, possibly, breaking the laws of nature.

"The Philosopher's Stone only extends the lifespan and strengthens the life force of its user through the sacrifice of another's. Since the ingredients used are human souls, then it would make sense that what you sacrifice in order to prolong your life or perform a feat that would need energy enough to deprive you of life would be the soul of an individual. The moment the Stone has run out of power means that all the souls you have used to create it has been exhausted thoroughly."

It was something he was far too familiar with, something he has first-hand experience with. There was the gel in Dr. Marcoh's possession. There was the crystal Kimblee used. The ones within the homunculi. And there was his father, who had been a _living, breathing_ _example_ of the almighty product of alchemy. Too bad the ingredients to creating one consisted of something so gruesome and horrifying.

The way the Stone worked gave him, and, similarly, those who knew of its workings, had brought about the learning that human souls were just another source of energy. It was quite the morbid thought to have—to harvest humans and to use them to power something else entirely. Well, the Dwarf in the Flask had made sure they were knowledgeable of such a concept, but who was to say that history would not repeat itself, even in another world?

He was brought out of his engrossment with memories on the Stone when his acquaintance cleared his throat and queried him.

"I beg your pardon, but refresh me as to the date today? Do please specify our glorious year, as well."

"April 20, 1889."

"Ah. Thank you, thank you. I _almost_ forgot. Braunau am Inn awaits."

The man made to stand after finishing his drink, and then made to check the time from a golden pocket watch he fished from his coat pocket. He then eyed Edward coolly, and regarded him as he prepared to leave.

"That would be all for today, Mr. Elric. We will speak more of these among other things, such as the tasks I wish of you, on another day. Dawn breaks in a few hours, and a busy man such as I have things to do in Austria while the Light is not out and about."

He tipped the bowler hat atop him and gave one last look at the now-immortal man in front of him, clear amusement dancing in his expression. His eyes glowed a heterochromic mix of red and blue as he gave the blond his parting words with a twisted smile upon his lips.

"And I do so _abhor_ the Light."

* * *

King Bradley came to mind while he combatted the sword-wielding priest.

The pseudo-human was a force to be reckoned with, despite what the creases on his forehead told about his age. Quick-witted, unrelenting, and so fearsomely fast you wouldn't even see him draw his blade to cut you down and carve his path open. The eye granted to him by powers of the Dwarf in the Flask did not only augment his vision, but also allowed him to easily predict multiple courses of action an opponent was about to make. Their line of sight, the ripple of their muscles, the creaking of their bones, the labor in their breathing—everything to him was information, and it was by this information that he dominated any human or homunculus alike in warfare. Armed with a weapon or not, it was nigh impossible to put Wrath the Furious in a severe disadvantage.

Funny how a memory of a meeting with He-Who-Turned-From-the-Light was before another Führer had been brought into the world. Perhaps he should have halted the Devil during that time, if only to avoid the crisis that was spewed forth into this world. Then again, history was better left as it was but as voluminous tomes of written accounts placed into high shelves. They were the reminder of the brutal ways that mankind itself shaped its society and the world around it, of the blood that was shed in order to achieve many a realization on how humanity must band together, or otherwise stand to be divided among petty reasons.

Besides, once it was history, "what ifs" no longer mattered, anyways.

He had managed to maneuver the priest into a grove behind the church, effectively separating him from the Fallen Angels his regular patient was currently dealing with. Alchemy, with a little inspiration from Xing's alkahestry, was useful like that, allowing him to create trap after trap that pushed back the perverse exorcist into a location more suitable for battle. It was more efficient that he was able to instantaneously transmute as well, energy willed to travel from under his feet and into the ground, bursting forth from where he wanted it and taking the form his mind had thought on.

It had been a wonderful idea so far to manifest the Ouroboros tattoo on his left eye.

"Goddammit, how the _fuck_ are you not getting all sliced up by these Excalibur blades, huh?!"

Perverse _and_ foul-mouthed. Typical of the more generic kind of men he had come to disagreements with multiple times in the past—a past he believed better left untouched for the moment.

The speed at which Excalibur Rapidly allowed Freed to move impressed him, almost as if it was by will alone that permitted him to keep getting faster and faster. But, no matter how fast the exorcist became, he was still hard-pressed to land a hit on the alchemist while he possessed the Ultimate Eye. Even if the other Excalibur piece, Destruction, merited the exorcist with overwhelming power to destroy and was complimented with the speed to use it, the efforts were for naught with senses surpassing superhuman.

After all, everything about the maniacal foe's battle motion was basic information to him at this point. Enchantments that came from weapons of powers long forgotten to humanity were limited by the vessel wielding them.

… _And for the Ultimate Eye, the more that you gave away who you are, the faster you approach the doors of death._

"If that shitty eye you have is what's giving me a damn terrible time right now, I guess I'll have to fucking gouge it out then!"

He would have done Bradley proud, being able to dodge the Excalibur blades at record speed and swatting them away as he hit the flat of the blades. The alchemist was rooted to the same spot, albeit having his upper body kept in motion as the priest relentlessly charged him with a flurry of dual-bladed techniques, all of which missed him by mere centimeters and were countered without much ado. He would lean back, twist left, turn right, duck, or drop down altogether, and then thrust his palms out to disrupt the flow of attack on him.

The alchemist was no swordsman, he confessed. He never had to wield such kinds of weapons before—his automail, hand-to-hand mastery, and his alchemy were enough—much less learn how to use them. However, he was quite impressed with the movements the exorcist showed. There were no wasteful motions, only efficient swings aimed for exact vital spots that would prove fatal if it connected. Each attack was made with all the intention to kill, not just with the intent to grasp victory. Every time he was parried or blocked, the priest would improvise on the fly and find a way to attack again. The priest would feint slashing at a vital area on his torso down before focusing back on disabling the Eye. Sanity-deprived he may be, it would be unwise to describe Freed as nescient in the way of the sword.

Perhaps, Edward Elric realized, he had been playing around with the frustrated priest long enough. As much as he would want to leave Haise alone and trust the white-haired's confidence in being able to battle two Fallen Angels, he would be much more secure in the fact if he could be somewhere nearer, observing the ensuing combat between the three. He knew how strong Haise was, of course. But in a fight, things could go either ways, no matter how much strength you possessed. Factors such as numbers, plans, terrain and even sheer luck could be used to one's advantage in order to defeat particularly powerful opponents.

Like how Scar and company managed to end war's fury incarnate that was King Bradley.

Maintaining a Sin's aspect of battle was no trouble for him. The centuries he'd live through provided him with much time to make use of the tools he possessed and hone his skill in manipulating them. However, maintaining more than a single one was taxing, even for a body like his—the internal transmutation speeds it took, the amount of energy it required, and the hectic decomposition and regeneration pattern of the organic elements and compounds within his body were variables that he had to face and efficiently perform in order to put to use with proper coordination the abilities of other homunculi. Abilities like his had significant drawbacks since he no longer had his Gate, and thus were only as efficient as he made them to be. Drawn-out battles would then be to his disadvantage if he was ever put to the limits and made to attempt such a tactic. He would not last long against fighters of those type. After all, his Stone worked all too differently from the usual he was acquainted with. Trust a Devil to possess a little more creativity, then.

"Which means I just have to end it _fast enough,_ " a problem he was confident Wrath was capable of aiding him in solving.

Red spikes of energy surged out from his skin as his arm's complexion greyed out before darkening into a duller, darker shade. His fingernails edged outward, lengthening and growing out into his fingers and morphing his hands into bestial claws, as if his fingers had become sharp knives. He felt the Ouroboros tattoo emboss onto the top of his right hand and above his sternum, leaving him with a tingling sensation akin to adrenaline rush. He could already feel the inner turmoil within his body begin, with the rush of human souls get consumed and recomposed to fuel the state he had entered.

The Ultimate Shield—the ability bound to Greed the Avaricious, it was one that adeptly manipulated the strength of carbon. The homunculus using it would often coat his body with it, repelling bullets, blades, and an assortment of weapons with ease comparable to the simple act of breathing. Coupled with an animalistic unpredictability in combat, Greed was shield and defense incarnate, able to go on the offensive with little worry about sacrificing defense.

The Ultimate Spear—bound to the singular female homunculus Lust the Lascivious, it worked simply with the goal of penetrating through even the toughest existing material. It sliced through flesh like it was paper, and tore through the toughest of metals like they were loaves of bread. Edward never really did manage to glimpse much into the complexity of Lust and her use of this ability, but made enough self-notes from Alphonse and Colonel Mustang regarding their encounter with the crafty female.

Hand in hand, combat would prove to be easy with Spear and Shield both in hand. Add in the Eye, and perhaps fighting a whole army by yourself could prove to be no challenge at all.

"Those swords of yours look _very interesting_."

Among weapons blessed by the power of the Light, the sword Excalibur held renown that matched the popularity of King Arthur himself—where stories of the ancient kingdom came, the Holy Sword's reputation followed closely. If what the legends say hold true, then perhaps the blade would rid the alchemist of his certain devil problem, concerning a double-crossed contract and a soul possession.

But then again, acquiring the sword was only a _contingency_ plan among his other methods of redemption.

"The hell are you saying?!"

Really, it was both a disappointing and angering thought that a barbarian such as this man had been given blades that defied humanity's limits in crafting. The psychopath was only enamored by the powers it bestowed, and perhaps his demented mind was just as full of greed and desire as a Devil—which is ironic for his profession. The exorcist knew only of the reputation brought by Excalibur in war, and nothing else mattered then. Such an attitude did not befit wielding an ancient artifact, if only to say the least. All in all, the alchemist believed he was doing the blades and its worthy past wielders a service by ending the fool's life.

Try as Freed might have to have the swords grant him superhuman abilities, he did not possess the knowledge on what made these kinds of artifacts function to their fullest—it was this one variable that made the Knights of the Round Table capable of wielding holy swords that made armies shake in fear; it was this one factor that made heroes such as Perseus, Heracles, and Siegfried able to take hold of their blades and combat beasts surpassing human imagination with ease none could match.

—It was the blessing, direct and indirect, of beings so ancient and old.

The deranged priest was no hero. He was no demigod. And he definitely did not earn the good graces of gods concerned with events transpiring in the human world. This line separated him from those whose strength were of a different caliber, and this reason was the one thing that made sure he would never be able to bring out the best in Excalibur like King Arthur would.

The exorcist barely had time to blink before Edward Elric had rushed right in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, his left arm and leg were already flying off, leaving stumps that were spraying crimson from his side. Before a piercing scream could blast out of his throat, the foreign sensation of something digging through his abdomen embraced him, stopping his voice dead in its tracks.

Freed slumped to his knees, astounded still to what had transpired. All in the frame of a second, he was amputated and disemboweled—all of it, before he could even bat an eye.

"… What the… fuck… are _you_?"

The priest barely spat out the words as pain became the only sensation his body felt. Edward eyed him blankly, shortly debating on what to say to the dying man. There was no trouble in telling a man in such a state the truth, but then again, he didn't necessarily have to go to that trouble.

After all, the _truth_ was always a troublesome thing.

"I am the truth of your pitiful existence—the truth that has long waited to claim your life for the many you have taken unjustly."

Red tendrils of energy surged from the alchemist and began coiling around the dying exorcist, tearing out what was left of his damned soul and placing it deep within the confines of the multitudes of screaming human spirits locked deep within his flesh.

As the last few vestiges of life began to drip out of Freed's body, the last sight he beheld was of the alchemist taking away the Excalibur swords, trudging away in the direction of his ally.

"… Shit…"

* * *

For the past few minutes, Haise had discovered how annoying it was to avoid death while having to dodge spears of Light and slews of distasteful verbal abuse at the same time.

"Stand still and get skewered, you limped-dick fuck!"

How rude. He wanted to contest the validity of her statement with a memory of Touka Kirishima mewling sweet music into his ears, eloquently complimenting him on his—

 **[While I bear no ill will on the human concept of nostalgia, focus on the task at hand and dodge the incoming spear!]**

Spears of light impaled themselves onto the ground, right on the spot where the Ghoul stood on mere seconds before they landed. He had jumped back a short distance, keeping his eye on Raynare and Kalawarner as they prepared to pelt him with another set of spears.

While Raynare drew back her arm as light coalesced into a long cylinder in her right hand, Kalawarner flew towards him wielding her spears like they were normal weapons. The latter thrust and swept the light-made weapons about the Ghoul, deftly moving them as if they were additional limbs rather than simply tools.

The expertise in them solidified the more battle-ready nature he sensed from the female Fallen, and he assumed that she must have been one of the many of their kin called to arms during the Great War. Kalawarner shared Raynare's zeal in what it was they did, but unlike the latter, the former possessed the air of a veteran immersed in work being performed systematically—work, that held no personal traces of desires, only the aim of completion.

He could at least respect that about his opponent, he figured. But it did not mean mercy came with that respect—no, he would gift that instead with a seriousness in combat befitting of such talent. After all, respect begets respect, as one man had put it.

 **[That's it. Infuse the Light into your kagune. To take power and wield it as your own is what it means to survive; to emerge victorious. Such is the way of the apex predator who stalks the fields of strife!]**

The kagune that pushed itself out of his body had felt more tingly than normal; the sensation was akin to having an army of ants crawling all over his limbs. An abnormal orange glow draped the additional appendages, radiating an aura the Ghoul noticed was alike with the spears wielded by his foes.

Haise spun around, using the momentum to swipe at Kalawarner. The strike hit true, sending her flying towards Raynare like a speeding bullet. Raynare, in the middle of drawing forth spears to shoot, had no time to react as Kalawarner collided into her and left them falling out of the air. The albino Ghoul let out a breath, retracting his rinkaku and feeling the cells seep back around his waist area.

"… Ddraig. How bad would it be if this keeps going any further?"

 **[They will tire you out with alternating melee and range, and you will remain on the defensive with little to no window for offense. Your endurance will run out, and that is when death comes knocking on your door.]**

"So we'll just have to end this now. Well, I'd like to try something I haven't done for a while, though." His thumb hovered over one of his index finger's joints as his lips curved upwards in morbid delight.

 _Crack_.

RC cells gushed out from near his shoulder blades, tearing through his shirt and forming wing-like appendages from behind him. A larger pair were the ones on his right, as compared to the pair on his left. The wings alternated in colors of deep and light blue, as if some kind of chameleon's skin suiting an environment of sapphire or cerulean.

He supposed, in his own humble opinion, that he would never be as good as the Kirishima siblings or Yomo-san when it came to mastery over the ukaku. Melee was said to spell certain death for the ukaku users, but Touka, Ayato, and Yomo were still as vicious in close-quarters as they were from a distance. They'd pelt their foes and shred skin, resolve, and life into a torn, bloodied mess from afar, and then blitz them when they closed in all too fast for the opponent to react.

The two were already stirring, making an effort to stand from their position. While both were still dazed, he hardened the cells of the ukaku and infused them with the similar energy readout from before, and then shot out a myriad number of shards at the two.

It was as if a storm of miniature light spears flew across the distance between Haise and the Fallen Angels; crystallized RC cells filled with the energy signature used by his opponents were damaging them slowly but surely, but it was not really their bodies that he was aiming for.

 **[Hmph. A fine deduction. Flightless birds have no means to escape grounded predators, after all.]**

Crimson painted the jet black wings of Raynare and Kalawarner, with every hit of the ukaku's shard making them drop more and more feathers unto the ground. The two were locked into their position, unable to move and even conjure a minute spear of Light. It was like a harsh rain of overly large needles were pushing forth past them, the assault giving them no time for respite whatsoever. Red painted the dark pinions, and the Fallen no longer looked so like harbingers of death.

 _Crack._

He started stalking towards them, as a predator of the open savannahs would. His feet moved in a casual pace, yet in stark contrast his body never betrayed the tenseness he always possessed in life-and-death situation. He wanted to get close. He wanted to _hear_ them squeal and groan in pain. He wanted to _bear witness_ to their faces as it contorted in pain, their eyes overflowing with hate, frustration, and desperation. Haise _knew_ he was doing a bad job of keeping Ken's bad habits of periodic overconfidence and sadism under wraps, but this time he didn't mind—something told him this one time to vent would be fine, and there was no need to worry about his surroundings either.

As barely as he might have hunted for meals in Kuoh, he had made sure to hunt down humans who have dared become monstrosities by committing acts against fellow men. He fricasseed murderers, dismembered thieves and filleted rapists, among the many other methods he employed in hunting down prey. Perhaps it was him being hypocritical, in a way—hunting monsters who have turned their backs of what made humans humane as a monster who has turned his back on being human.

 _No_ , he would always correct himself. His physiology may be far from normal, but he has never forgotten what he originally was. And perhaps, _just perhaps_ , he may never will—and that made all the difference.

Noting that the distance was close enough, he rushed in after one last wave of his ukaku's assault, and tore through Raynare's throat with his bare right hand. Blood gurgled out of the Fallen's mouth, coloring her already red lips a shade darker. She made to speak, but only managed pained croaks that choked on the liquid that hurriedly leak out of her throat and mouth. He gripped her neck harder and harder until he no longer felt the pulse of her life, eyes rolling back and breath finally ceasing.

 _At least she won't curse anymore. Still, what a fragile doll she turned out to be._

Tossing Raynare's carcass away, Haise spun back to meet Kalawarner's strike with his rinkaku, his ukaku already having been pulled back into his body. Apart from the clear fear that marred her features, there was a new spark that was alight in her eyes, something he'd already had his fill of seeing in the past.

Kalawarner then steeled her expression and struck back with renewed vigor, two spears of Light in hand. While Haise was able to keep up without much trouble, he had to admit that there was more force behind her flurry of attacks. Ironically speaking, it was as if the Fallen had become possessed by a Demon, warfare hunger consuming her and charging her body with brute force and steely resolve.

Her eyes promised retribution, even at the cost of her life.

Switching strategies, the ukaku withdrew deep into him. RC cells then burst forth beneath his right scapula, a blue mass of a tendril coiling around his upper arm and extending down rigidly beneath the lower arm. The koukaku was strong enough to bolster his defenses while it acted as both sword and shield, but still possessed a deadliness that was undermined by the simplistic yet graceful look it possessed.

Haise always thought that that description oddly contradicted the personality of one Shu Tsukiyama.

It was quite difficult for the Kakuja to peg the Gourmet's side during the past. There were times they fought one another, and there were times they fought together. The man chased after him like the Spanish chased after the myth of El Dorado, and what mattered most to the Tsukiyama heir was the consumption of one scrumptious Ken and his Half-Ghoul attributes and flavors.

Still, such a history did not serve to diminish the respect he held for the Gourmet—granted, he possessed his eccentricities (just as many other Ghouls did), yet his prowess and technique in combat was a deadly dance that resulted in many severed heads and disemboweled bodies. Tsukiyama turned the battlefield into an artwork painted crimson with the expertise of Michelangelo crossed with Sweeney Todd.

Reinforcing the koukaku with the Light attribute made his defense infallible—the spears Kalawarner threw felt like small rocks pelting his skin; more of a nuisance than outright dangerous. If he shrugged off the spears from this distance, then melee was a territory he would have no reservations dominating.

Darting in, Haise dodged and deflected the spears that appeared to impale him with little effort. Even if her emotions had somehow given her some boost in power, they were making her movements far too reckless and predictable. A mind far too unfocused in battle had no place in a fight, as such a state spelled a very imminent doom. Haise was at an advantage, and Kalawarner was too incensed to realize the glaring mistake she was making.

 **[Time runs short. Let us finish this.]**

A maniacal smile graced Haise's lips as he rushed in, koukaku poised to eat through the Fallen Angel.

* * *

"What a mess this entire thing has become."

Sirzechs snorted uncharacteristically, earning an uncomfortable wince from the man seated across him. His office of operations as one of the Great Satans had an atmosphere that radiated homeliness in order for a much better air whenever he met other Devils for varying matters. Of course, it was a weapon, all things considered, that was so disarming in the way that it made his political visitors way too lax in exchanging words with him. Then again, he would admit that to no one but himself.

But as of the moment, despite the calm exterior the Lucifer possessed, and the methodical and formal way he had composed himself as he slowly drank his tea, the atmosphere in that room was anything but homely. It was a frigid sensation akin to an irate Serafall, and it brought the same sensation of growing dread to the dejected man accompanying the redhead.

"A mess? A _mess_? Hah! As usual, you have the propensity to make a molehill out of a mountain, _father_."

The way he had referred to the elderly Lord Gremory across him was filled with much vindictive malice and venom, and the man seemed to age more when the word hit his hearing.

"… Are there no news?"

"Oh? And now you express concern? Aren't we a tad too late?"

Lord Gremory slammed his clenched fists into the table, which was doing a poor job of separating them from each other's ire. "Dammit, she's still my daughter, Sirzechs! And you are my son! I know I have committed a mistake, but—"

"But nothing!" Lord Gremory recoiled, never having seen his son be this forceful. "You have lost your right as a father, as a man who _genuinely cares for us_ , the moment you had signed her off as a nothing more but a broodmare for the Phenex brat!"

Until now, the Great Satan of Lucifer could remember the depth of his sister's grief and just how much of it crushed his soul. That same day was when she had exchanged vows with the Phenex heir, where she had become naught but an empty shell—a trophy wife, made to bolster the Phenex name; a broodmare to continue the lineage of a new generation of Purebloods.

"… I have heard whispers among the younglings."

The effort Lord Gremory had made to change the topic was halfhearted at best, but had to be for the condition his daughter was under was not the cause for business with the Great Satan today.

"… Do tell, and please be quick. Who knows what mother might do to you once she arrives."

The elderly Gremory nodded. "You are aware of the recent streak of victories the Phenex lad has within the Youth Circuit for Rating Games."

"Yes. His peerage has had what it takes so far to prove themselves a household name among the enthusiasts of our outlet for competitiveness."

"Rumors are spreading Sirzechs—of backdoor dealings and off-the-record meetings. Riser Phenex has been said to have been speaking with Pillar families who had supported the Old Satan Faction before." A grim look dawned upon Sirzechs, and at his behest his father continued. "It may be something; may not be something—however, the possibility of this being nothing lessens when my spies learn the same kind of rumor over and over."

"And since when have you been tagging the young Phenex heir with your spies?" the Great Satan challenged. To his credit, Lord Gremory met it head on.

"Since I've learned that he is clearly not all he seems, and that I have failed the task all fathers have. I may never earn yours, your sister's, and Venelana's forgiveness, but I will do all I can to see this family be brought back together once more—even if it means removing myself from the picture."

Perhaps it was the Gremory trait of compassion, or perhaps it may have been something else, that made the Great Satan look at his father with a longing glance. Even if what he did to Rias's happiness had left a particularly nasty blight within the relations of this family, it was still quite a thing to see him weather the hatred just so he could atone for the mistake he had never realized until it was too late.

"It seems Venelana beckons. Good day to you, Lord Lucifer. I beg you to please consider what I have shared to you with the utmost of scrutiny."

And with that, Lord Gremory took his leave. If he had lingered for a bit longer, he may have taken notice of the softening of his son's expression.

* * *

"Right now, there isn't anything holy about this place."

No truer words have been spoken, Haise thought to himself. Of course, looking at the state of the inside of the abandoned Kuoh Church, the place looked more like an ignored infrastructure after it was hit by some natural calamity. However, with how the inside of the place smelled of sex and bodily fluids, his agreement with Edward could not have been deterred by anything—Fallen Angels committing such acts in this place served only to tell them just how much these beings had sunk to, how willing they were to desecrate the sanctuary they were once taught to show reverence.

Haise's sense of smell tingled; olfactory nerves picking up the scent of human blood trailing mysteriously to below their feet. Trusting his senses not to lie, perhaps a hidden entrance may lie in wait somewhere within the area that could lead them to where the scent originated from.

"There appear to be people down below."

Off to another side was the alchemist, knelt down and tracing the faded pattern of chalk that was upon some of the rotting floorboards of the altar. "These runic patterns show signs of a ritual having taken place here. They're not burnt into the wood—as the case is when rites of this kind are successful—and the chalk used seems to have been inscribed here for months now."

Haise knew very little about the supernatural arts, and deferred to Edward for any other thought on this. Perhaps if the red-haired Devil was here, they could be further enlightened by what it was that the runes on the floor completely meant. Since he wasn't, then the blonde alchemist's hypotheses on this would have to do for now.

"This array… It makes use of some Babylonian cuneiform, but the way they overlap makes it hard for me to discern their nature."

"… I thought you were a doctor. Or a chemist. Or both. How do you even know this?"

The alchemist smirked. "Taking care of your pale, sickly ass is part-time business only. I have been researching sorcery, magics, and other arcane arts for some time now for… you know, and despite all the dead ends, the knowledge is actually quite useful."

"Sorcery aside, shouldn't we explore the basement? I can hear breathing noises and smell a tinge of blood. And it doesn't seem to be just one person."

Edward nodded. "Right. Well, let's just do this the easy way."

Energy crackled underneath Edward's feet, transmuting the floorboards and concrete into a set of stairs that led to a small tunnel below the church. As they moved down, the blonde took a block of wood and made the oxygen combust on one of its end to create a makeshift torch.

As they ventured into the small pathway, they were shortly met dismal sight.

Cells lined the hallway's sides, each holding a number of teenage girls. The captives were a mess, wearing nothing but sackcloth stained with dirt and blood, hair tussled and tangled, and various wounds and bruises littering their skin. The looks Haise and Edward received were a mix of fear, hope, and despair.

… _What the hell were they doing to these girls?_

The passing thought was filed for later when an angry red tendril of energy snaked from the blond alchemist and branched off into the cells, melting down the locks that held the barred entrances at bay. They made to move towards the nearest cell doors, when suddenly a palpable aura weighed upon them like an entire ocean, accompanied by the a surging azure light further along the corridor.

"Nrk… Something's teleporting to this location!"

A sigil burned cerulean, leaking the pressure into the narrow corridor and sending the captive women into unconsciousness. While Haise and Edward were able to hold their ground, the sensation was by no means welcome in any way—it alerted their senses to an oncoming threat, one they were sure was far more serious than their earlier encounter.

A flash of light later, and a lone winged figure stood from across them, imposing itself with waves of power ebbing to and fro from it. The black pair of wings protruding from his back fluttered out to reveal four more pairs—all of which were a mix of eldritch and golden pinions.

"Greetings, whelps. Your interference was most interesting to watch, but I am afraid this is where it ends."

His onyx eyes shone with unadulterated malice, his lips curved into madman's grin, and spears the size of lamp posts shone an eerie blue from his palms.

"Remember me in your death. Remember Yeqon, the First of Grigori's Adversaries."

* * *

 **Hello there.**

 **I haven't updated in a while. I know, I know. I apologize for that. However, I would not go to say that RL was the main reason for the long absence—the (un)official hiatus I had imposed upon myself was spent on writing a lot of other stuff (short stories, one-shots, other ideas) and reading lots of books and novels for reference.**

 **In short, I was polishing my noob-shit skills in writing.**

 **Also, I was playing a shit-ton of games. My 3DS wife would like to say hi to y'all.**

 **Those things aside, by the end of my self-imposed exile, I came back to write my stories in FF, and of all of them _Colorless_ was actually the easiest to come back to. So, here is the update for all you people. And another thing to add, I don't think _Colorless_ would be ending that soon—the way I planned and outlined stuff actually prolonged its life, and that also prolonged, in turn, my creativity invested in this.**

 **Also, _Sine Faciem_ is NOT abandoned. I have officially come to the process of doing it again from scratch (a copy of it), and for some reason I came to love the rewrite I did far more than the current series. So far, that one-shot rewrite has been expanded to four chapters so far, and I intend to post them and replace the original story gradually sometime by late August or early September (because midterms and college shit).**

 **Read. Review. Tell me what you loved, you hated, and suggestions are welcome. Especially on that damned Balance Breaker. I'm still having problems.**

 **Arsony out.**

* * *

 _ *** Update Jul. 26, 2016**_. Replaced the currently uploaded Chapter 3 _with the correct_ Chapter 3. Correct C3 DOES NOT contain any conversation pertaining to a new Underworld Civil War. Uploading the unedited file was my fault (I should've just deleted the unedited version), and has been rectified. Shoutout to _**Snek de la Keeper of Lonk**_ for getting me to check on this fault on my part.


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